


Gossip

by AJLenoire



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Bisexual Allura (Voltron), Bisexual Shiro (Voltron), Drinking Games, F/M, House Party, Human Allura (Voltron), Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Past Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Stargazing, Studying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJLenoire/pseuds/AJLenoire
Summary: Gossip probably isn't to be trusted, but even without it, two students at Arus University would probably still be fascinated by each other.
Relationships: Allura/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Gossip

**Author's Note:**

> This is fully a loveletter, first to Shiro and Allura (both separately you and together) and secondly to my own college days before The Plague snatched the last of them away from me.

She’d seen him around campus, but she didn’t really know him. They had mutual friends, but she’d never actually spoken to him. A friend of a friend of a friend, if you like.

Apparently, he’d been the quarterback of his high-school football team—until, in his senior year, he’d gotten into a car crash with one of his friends and his friend’s father. The friend and the father had been banged up but ultimately fine, but _he_ had broken his arm and gotten a pretty bad concussion—bad enough that he’d had to repeat his final year and quit the football team. People said that was how he’d gotten the scar across the bridge of his nose, but this was all gossip and probably not to be trusted.

But if gossip _was_ to be trusted, he’d gotten into a huge fight with his ex during his second senior year. Said ex had wanted him to stay in-state, but he had, for whatever reason, insisted on coming to Arus University, and the argument had gotten bad enough to break them up.

He was also something of a legend on campus. Not for the car crash, which was small-town knowledge, but for the fact that he was a wizard of mixology. Not even God knew what he put in those drinks, but it was widely agreed that if you needed to pull an all-nighter and write a 25-page paper you went to his apartment, slid him a twenty, and prepared yourself to stay awake for 36 hours and probably hallucinate a bit.

Half the student body was convinced he didn’t sleep, and the only reason the other half weren’t convinced of the same was because they’d seen him asleep in various improbable places across campus. Apparently he regularly featured on the respectably-popular Instagram account dedicated to photos of students passed out in strange places.

The only reason he was on her radar—well, not the _only_ reason, because despite the car crash he was pretty easy on the eyes, and she knew that because she’d seen his Instagram account that was about 70% photos of the night sky and 30% mirror selfies of a man who apparently had _no idea_ he looked good—was because he was in her politics class.

* * *

He’d seen her around campus, but he didn’t really know her. They had mutual friends, but he’d never actually spoken to her. A friend of a friend of a friend, if you like. Apparently, she’d finished high school a year early, and had spent two years travelling the world and later interning for the British Foreign Secretary, gaining up-close experience in how government functioned both internally and in relation to other governments, and had been kidnapped by a terrorist cell in the hopes that she would have information, only to be rescued by a Secret Service agent. People said that was why her hair was white, but this was all gossip and probably not to be trusted.

But if gossip _was_ to be trusted, she’d gotten into a huge fight with her boyfriend a few months ago. He’d been some uptight British fop who’d wanted her to settle down and be his trophy girl, but she had, for fairly evident reasons, instead chosen to go to Arus and had dumped him on her way out. He was supposedly the reason why she hadn’t gone on any dates yet, despite being very friendly, very popular, and very pretty.

She was also something of a legend on campus. Not because of her father, who was a renowned diplomat and ambassador, but because no one seemed to know what her degree was. Everyone knew her, everyone agreed she was indeed a student, and several people had seen her in their classes, but no one knew what she actually _studied_. She’d been seen in everything from senior Biology to freshman Classic Lit, always taking notes, always asking questions that got the lecturers excited to talk more about their specialised interests.

Half the student body was convinced she didn’t need to sleep, because she was regularly seen partying up a storm, getting delightfully drunk and dancing with her friends, then calmly swanning in to her 9am classes with perfect make-up and a beaming smile. She aced every assignment.

The only reason she was on his radar—well, not the _only_ reason because he’d seen her Instagram account and it was an even split between cute aesthetic photos of food, interesting snapshots of her studies or internship, and absolutely jaw-dropping selfies of a woman who knew she looked good and was having a lot of fun with it—was because she was in his politics class.

* * *

It was eleven-thirty-two p.m., and the eighth floor of the library was completely deserted, save for two students at opposite ends of the ‘desk courtyard’, which was what students called the group of desks in the center of the floor, surrounded on all four sides by tall shelves filled with books. Level 8 was politics and law. Everyone currently in the library was either a Masters student obsessing over their thesis or someone who had an assignment due in twenty-eight minutes and only half the required words.

Well, everyone except these two. Despite their innumerable differences, going from as shallow to their appearances to as deep as their formative life experiences, neither was the type of person to let themselves off the hook until a task was done. Not sketched out, not half-finished, but done. Printed off, handed in, _done_. Both had earbuds in, playing music, and both were doing work. The floor was silent.

Well. Nearly silent.

“Wait, what? Oh— _ugh!_ ” came a groan. “ _Fucking_ numbers!”

This wasn’t the first outburst, but it was the loudest and the first to contain profanity. Amusedly curious, he looked up from his desk to the only other occupant of the floor, and realised with a jolt that he recognised her. The white hair was unmistakable.

“Hey,” he said, catching her attention. Her gaze snapped to him and her eyes widened as she realised she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. She braced herself for either a calm comment or a snippy remark about her noise level, but instead he said, “Are you okay?”

She blinked at him pulling out her earbuds, then abruptly realised that she _knew_ this stranger—not properly, but she recognised him. She’d seen him in classes and… _oh._ He was Instagram Guy. She hadn’t immediately recognised him because he didn’t wear glasses in any of his pictures. But unmistakably, under those slender rectangular lenses, there was that same smile, slightly lop-sided; sweet and genuine and blatantly unaware of his own disarming handsomeness. It was even more disarmingly handsome in real life. The glasses were a nice touch; they made him look just a little more mature. Like the high school TA everyone had a crush on.

She hadn’t spoken for several seconds.

Scrambling to reply, she managed, “Uh, yeah. I—I’m fine. I just…” She frowned at her laptop, at the pages of notes strewn before her. “I’m having some trouble with historical dates.” She gave a small laugh. “Can't seem to get my timeline straight. Sorry to disturb you,” she added, suddenly realising that she must have shattered his focus in her frustration.

He himself had been fairly caught off-guard. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t realised earlier who she was—who else at the university had snow-white hair? She always looked so perfectly put together, like nothing and no one could touch her, so gorgeous it was almost scary. She was supposed to be dancing alluringly at a party, surrounded by gloriously drunk revellers, or thoughtfully engaged at a lecture; seeing her in the library at eleven-thirty at night, surrounded by pages and looking bothered was like seeing a unicorn.

She’d said something. He needed to respond.

“Uh, no worries—I mean, it’s fine. You didn’t. Disturb me,” he stammered, losing what little cool he had as he fumbled around his words. “Um… what’re—what’re you working on?”

She sighed again, resting an elbow on the desk and resting her cheek against her fist. “Politics essay.”

He raised his eyebrows, pretending like he hadn’t already known. “Oh, you do politics? Me too.”

She mimicked his surprise, also pretending like she hadn’t already known. “Yeah? _Oh_ —we have the same—you do Citizenship and Democracy.”

He nodded. “Is that what you’re working on?”

“Ugh, I wish,” she huffed. That had been a 4000-word analysis of a chosen country’s naturalisation laws, and whilst it had been dense, it hadn’t been too difficult to wrap her head around and she’d submitted it two days ago. “This is Sanchez’s essay for Com-Con.”

Raising his eyebrows, he said, “Really? Me too.”

“Oh?” she said blankly, thinking back to her lectures and how she’d never seen him in that class; how she would have absolutely remembered him if she had.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I take the afternoon classes, though.” He looked at her thought about how he would’ve _definitely_ noticed her if she’d been there, even without bright white hair. “I take it you go to the morning sessions?”

 _Ah_ , she thought, that would explain it. Com-Con, or more formally, Communication and Conflict in World Politics, was a relatively popular module and Professor Sanchez preferred smaller classes, so her lectures ran twice a day—once in the morning, and once in the afternoon. She preferred to aim for the early classes as it gave her a reason to get up early and make more of the day.

She smiled, just a hint of a smirk. “Early bird gets the worm.”

“Second mouse gets the cheese,” he replied with another flash of that disarming smile, and she gave a small giggle. That sound, he abruptly thought, was far too nice and far too enticing for his own good. “So, um…” He floundered again for a minute. “Do—do you want help with it? The—Sanchez’s essay, I mean. I was planning to make a start on it myself tonight.”

Her glance flickered down to his laptop and the papers stacked neatly to one side, and she raised an eyebrow. “You look pretty busy already.”

“Nah, I’m almost done with this,” he said, “Really. I can help you and then finish this off. I know we can’t—we can’t work _too_ closely or they’ll fail us for plagiarism, but, uh, we could bounce ideas? Or something?” He flashed another lopsided grin. “Lucky for you, I’m _great_ at dates.”

_Wait._

Whilst he bluescreened for a moment, worried if he’d come off as some flirting douchebag, she looked at him, not quite sure if his offer was sincere, or if she could swallow enough pride to accept it. However, she noticed his slight fluster at the unwitting double-entendre, then smiled.

“I’d actually really like that,” she admitted.

“Alright, then,” he nodded, trying not to show how excited he was by her answer. He gathered his things and moved them to the seat next to hers, balking when he saw the five pages covered in angry scribbles and incorrect timelines.

“I don’t like dates,” she repeated, flushing again.

He shrugged. “Everyone has something they’re not good at,” he said, still staring at the pages. “So, um… which question were you thinking of doing?”

She pointed to her chosen topic. “Number five.”

He gave a soft laugh. “No kidding, I picked the same one.”

She blinked at him. “You have an interest in how the technological advances of the 20th century shaped international relations today?” she deadpanned.

Another shrug. “I wanna be an astronaut, I’m pretty interested in 20th century technology.”

“Touché,” she murmured, and he stifled a laugh.

“I’m Takashi Shirogane, by the way,” he then said, extending a hand. She looked down at it for a moment, then back up at him. Did he seriously think she didn’t know who he was? Then again, it wasn’t like they’d ever spoken.

Taking his hand—they both made note of the other’s firm grip—she shook it and with a dazzling smile said, “Allura.” She didn’t give a last name. Was that because she didn’t want to be recognised, or because she already assumed she had been? Did she seriously think he didn’t know who she was? “Nice to meet you, Takashi.”

“Shiro,” he corrected automatically.

“What?”

“Um.” He flushed. “My—my friends all call me Shiro.”

Her eyes widened, and she felt somewhat embarassed. “Oh, do you—do you not like the name Takashi?”

He shook his head, “No, no, nothing like that. I just… everyone calls me Shiro.” He gave a sheepish smile.

Something in Allura’s eyes sparkled as she returned it, albeit more confidently. He wondered if she had any idea just how beautiful she looked when she smiled.

“Alright, _Shiro_ ,” she said, and they bent over her pages of notes. “Can you explain to me what the _hell_ this source is talking about?”

He looked at it. “Oh, fuck,” he said lightly. “I have… _absolutely_ no idea.”

“Oh, god…” Allura whined, and for a moment some tiny, traitorous part of Shiro’s brain thought about nice a sound that was, outside the context of her exasperation with the essay. “I really like this source! I know it makes some good points but I have _no_ idea what he’s talking about here!”

Shiro peered at the front of the book, then noticed the author’s name. “Hey, this is a translation,” he said, “Maybe the original version is clearer? The library probably has it,” he added, already looking around at the shelves.

She huffed again. “Yeah, but I can’t read Japanese—oh.” She looked at him. “You can read Japanese?”

He looked back at her. “Um… yeah? Isn’t is obvious?”

“Well, I didn’t want to assume anything,” she said, shrugging. “My cousin has a French name but doesn’t speak a word of it.”

Shiro thought about this. “ _Parlez-vous français?_ ”

Allura raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing about her lips. “ _Ouais_ ,” she replied, “ _Mais, pour quoi tu utilises la forme formelle?_ _Je pensais que j’suis ton amie._ ”

“Uh…” he muttered, not having expected her to reply. “…yes?”

She gave a small laugh—though Shiro wasn’t entirely sure at what he’d answered ‘yes’ to that was so funny—then asked, “So you can read Japanese?”

He spread his hands. “I’m not one-hundred-percent fluent,” he admitted, “But I manage. Maybe the original translation will be a little clearer.”

Allura bit her lip. “Are… are you sure?” she asked, “I don’t want to be a bother.” It honestly sounded like a lot of work, tracking down a book and finding the right passage and having him translate the original language.

Shiro grinned at her. “It’s really no bother,” he assured her. “Besides, I like the sound of his ideas, too, I might wanna use this source myself.”

She honestly didn’t know how true that was, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “Well, I could hardly turn down such a generous offer,” she said, and she led him to the shelf where she’d found the book. Sure enough, the original Japanese version was there, looking considerably less used than the English translation.

This particular shelf was tucked right at the back of the eighth floor, and as Shiro plucked the book off the shelf and began skimming through it to find the right page, Allura noted that in the soft lighting—library policy was to keep the lights gentle for the sake of the books’ condition—he was more than eye-catching; he really was stunning. Standing next to him in the cramped shelves, she realised just how _big_ he was. Whatever he did when he took photos somehow hid it so well, it almost seemed intentional. And, if not for the fact that it was clear to anyone with eyes that he had no idea the effect he could have—the way he smiled, the way he held himself, the mere fact that the focus of the image was always something like a new telescope or astronomy book—she wondered if it _was_ intentional.

But he _was_ big. Tall, broad-shouldered, and pretty well-muscled, too—not in the clean-cut, stylish I-go-to-the-gym-five-times-a-week-because-I-want-to way (she surely would’ve seen him there if he was), but a slightly rugged my-everyday-life- _requires_ -a-certain-level-of-fitness way. That was to be expected from someone who planned to be an astronaut, she supposed; the kind of lifestyle that required fitness and endurance rather than aesthetic musculature.

Suddenly, she had a mental image of him working on some farm, or as a mechanic, not even realising what that work was doing to his arms—and everything else besides.

She mentally slapped herself. _Stop it_ , she thought. It was hardly appropriate to be _ogling_ him like this; at best, it was plain rude. He’d offered to help her with her essay and she was drooling over him whilst he did the actual work. That was _not_ the sort of woman she was. She was smart, she was interested in her studies, and she’d worked _too_ hard to get out from the shadow her father’s position cast to throw it all away by getting a reputation for ogling sweet and helpful guys.

All the same, tucked away at the back of the library like this… late at night…

This time she physically shook herself, and Shiro looked up from the book, eyebrows raised. “You cold?” he asked, even though he doubted that was the case; as well as being dimly lit, the floors were kept slightly too warm for the sake of the books.

Allura shook her head. “Just… lost in thought,” she replied, then nodded towards the book. “So what does it say?”

He sighed. “Best I can tell, it’s not a mistranslation—he just worded it really badly. Shifting, he moved to stand beside her, balancing the book in one hand and pointing to the page with the other. The shelves were narrow, and Allura wondered if he was as oblivious about how close they were standing as he was about his own attractiveness. Their shoulders brushed against each other.

“See, _here_ ,” Shiro said, pointing to a line of characters that Allura had no hope of understanding, “He’s talking about the resisted invasion attempts, and how they were able to leverage natural resources into a political advantage, but then he’s going on about the— _oh_.” He suddenly stopped. “Fuck,” he said mildly.

Allura looked at him. “What?”

Shiro laughed. “God, I think—I think I’ve been studying for too long. I misread this character,” he said, and pushed his glasses up as he rubbed his eyes. “Okay, okay, I think I understand it now…”

They went back to sit at their desk. Over the next hour-and-a-half, they worked not quite together, but alongside one another, helping de-jargon sources, offering opinions, and discussing different authors’ perspectives. By the time a soft announcement came over the speaker system, quietly informing anyone still left in the library that it was now closed and they should leave, both of them had a decent chunk of their essays done.

“Ugh, thanks _so_ much for your help,” Allura sighed happily as she shoved her books and laptop into her bag with a level of haphazardness Shiro wouldn’t have expected from someone so put-together. “I think I would’ve driven myself crazy if I hadn’t figured out what Hashimoto was getting at.”

Shiro gave a small laugh as he took off his glasses and tucked them into a case. “You don’t like to let things go, do you?”

Allura raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like letting things get the better of me,” she corrected, slinging her satchel over her shoulder.

“Well, I’m glad I could be of some help,” he smiled, carefully and neatly putting his own things away. They walked down to the front doors together, bid goodnight to the security guard, and stood out on the street. In the middle of the night, after spending hours on the too-warm eighth floor, it was a bit brisk.

“Can I ask where you’re staying?” Shiro asked as they stood out the front door, facing each other. He had one hand braced on the strap of his backpack, the other in his front jeans pocket. The light from the streetlamps was angled in such a way that it highlighted the small dimples his glasses had left on the bridge of his nose. She couldn’t decide if he looked better with or without the glasses.

_Stop it._

“Uh, I live on George Street,” she replied, gesturing in the vague direction of her home. “Me and my friend Romelle, we share a house.”

Shiro raised his eyebrows. “A whole house between the two of you?” he asked, then immediately wished he hadn’t. He must’ve given something away; told her he knew who she was and that he thought she was frivolous. He braced himself for a stiff reply and an even stiffer goodbye, but Allura just shrugged.

“Yeah. I don’t like living with too many people,” she said, and Shiro relaxed a little. Almost two hours of talking with her and he’d so far not managed to blow it. Honestly, he could scarcely believe he’d spent almost two hours talking to her—that he’d been right up next to her in those stuffy shelves, that he’d made her laugh.

She was, he thought, very pretty. More than pretty; _gorgeous_. He hadn’t realised until they’d been up close in the back shelves that she was taller than he’d expected, only a half-head shorter than him, and definitely did some kind of gymnastics or dancing or something because there was no mistaking the grace with which she held herself, nor the strength. He wondered just _how_ strong she was, and how she’d look wearing a gym clothes, or a swimsuit.

_Oh my god._

What was he _doing?_ She was a perfectly nice young woman just trying to get an education and here he was… _fantasising_ about her! That was _not_ the man he had been raised to be—not the man he _was!_ If she had any idea of the thoughts that had just gone through his head, she would surely never want to talk to him again and honestly? He wouldn’t blame her.

“But,” Allura then went on, pulling Shiro from his terrible thoughts, and seeming not to notice the dark cloud of shame that had enveloped him, “I like _hanging out_ with people. We’re actually having a party this weekend. If… if you’d want to come?”

She looked up at him, almost shyly, and it took Shiro a moment to register what exactly she was asking—she… wanted to hang out with him _more?_ As in, _socially?_

Then again, it wasn’t like she’d _heard_ what he’d been thinking about her. Maybe he hadn’t come off as a desperate creep like he’d worried.

“A… party…” he said slowly. “Like… like a house party?”

Allura nodded. “You—you don’t have to come,” she said quickly, then even more quickly added, “If you don’t want to! If—if you want to, you’re more than welcome. It’ll just be a bunch of us getting drunk and playing stupid games. But it’ll be fun?” She said that last part more like a question than a statement, and he realised dumbly that that tone meant she was _hoping_ for him to come, she wasn’t just trying to pay him back for his help.

“That… sounds fun, actually,” he said, then realised how insincere that sounded. “I mean—yeah! Thanks! I’d like to—I haven’t been to a party in ages, actually. Been swamped with all the essays.”

Allura gave a sound that was half-exasperated-groan and half-agreement. “Ugh, I _know_. But Sanchez’s essay is the last one for this block, and Romelle has her last assignment due tomorrow, so we’re having a little… midterm party!” She made jazz-hands.

“Well, I’ll be there!” he said cheerfully, “Text me the address?”

“Uh, sure! But I don’t actually have your number,” she told him with a slight laugh.

He could’ve face-palmed right there in the street. Instead, he took out his phone and made a new contact, handing it over. With a smile, Allura took his phone and added her number.

“I’ll see you this weekend!” she said brightly, and walked off before Shiro could gather his wits enough to do more than wave dazedly. Had he just gotten a girl’s number… by accident?

Well, accident would probably imply he didn’t _want_ the number, and he absolutely did. But at the same time, he hadn’t actually been _trying_ to get it. He looked down at his phone to see what she’d entered.

 _Allura_ ✨

Yup. He’d definitely just gotten a girl’s number by accident.

* * *

Four days later, it was Saturday night, and that morning Shiro had received a text from _Allura_ ✨ with an address and a _starts at 9, hope you can make it! x_

He spent entirely too long thinking about that single 'x', about what to wear, about how to behave towards her that night. He felt like a nervous little freshman all over again. He didn’t want to try too hard and come off as vain, but he also didn’t want to look like he didn’t care and couldn’t be bothered to make an effort. He stood in his bedroom, hair wet, dressed in nothing but a towel, for the better part of a half an hour before he finally settled on his go-to: a black t-shirt, combat boots and dark jeans. Basic, but tidy. Simple, but stylish.

According to Allura’s text, the party started at nine, which meant it would be getting interesting around ten. At ten-fifteen, he arrived at the front door of the house whose walls could not fully muffle the thumping beat of dance music and whose curtains were not nearly thick enough to hide the rainbow disco lights. Luckily, this was well-known to be a student-y area, and he suspected that every house in a half-mile radius was filled with students who wouldn’t care about the noise, and who were probably partying themselves.

When he knocked on the door, expecting to be greeted by whichever random partygoer had been near enough to hear him, he was pleasantly surprised to see Allura standing there with a red solo cup in one hand.

“Shiro!” she said brightly, throwing up her arms and pulling him into a hug. His body hugged her back before his brain caught up, and he rationalised that, as hostess, she’d probably been drinking since six ‘o’clock and was just in a friendly mood. “You made it!”

He grinned at her as she hopped back to let him in. “Course I did!” he replied, “You don’t turn down an invitation from a beautiful lady.”

He turned bright red as soon as the words were out of his mouth. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ and hoped dearly that Allura hadn’t noticed just how much of a dork he’d been—or, worse, that she thought he was only here to hit on her.

Luckily, she didn’t, if only because her brain had short-circuited the moment he’d called her ‘beautiful’. She also didn’t notice Shiro scramble to cover himself as he half-shouted over the din of the music, “You look great!”

“Oh, thanks!” Allura grinned, giving an easy laugh. Was he staring a little or was the alcohol just going to her head? “I barely had any time to get ready, I just threw this on!”

That was a lie. Romelle could attest that Allura had spent every minute of the day either fretting about getting the house ready for the party or fretting about getting _herself_ ready. She had tried on eight different outfits, re-done her make-up twice and styled her hair three different ways before finally settling on the look she had now. A black halter-neck crop top, a pink pleated skirt and a pair of white over-the-knee socks that bared three tantalising inches of thigh. Her long hair was in its typical high ponytail, shorter curls framing her face.

“Well, you look great,” Shiro repeated.

“So do you!” Allura replied, trying not to look too obvious as she admired the slim cut of his jeans, and how his t-shirt seemed to cling in all the right places. “I—um… Dump your jacket on the pile and grab yourself a drink!” She flashed a grin, hoping she hadn’t appeared as flustered as she thought she had, then darted off into the crowd. Shiro blinked at the space she’d occupied only a moment before, then slipped off his leather jacket and tossed it onto a large pile at the door.

The house was large—much larger than he would’ve expected for two people—and filled to the brim with students, some of whom he sort-of recognised, most of whom he had never seen before, one of whom he was shocked to realise he knew. A someone a little shorter than him, with a scar on one cheek and rather long sandy-brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail.

“ _Matt?_ ”

At the sound of his name, Matt Holt looked up from the conversation he was having with two huge guys, both of whom were several inches taller than Shiro and by extension almost a foot taller than Matt himself. Shiro could tell just by looking that they belonged to a frat, and they were occupied by trying to pour shots without spilling too much alcohol on the counter. They were also failing quite spectacularly.

“Shiro?” Matt squawked, “What’re you doing here?”

“I… was invited!” Shiro replied, for some reason not eager to say—loudly and in front of several strangers—that it was Allura who had invited him. “What’re _you_ doing here?”

Matt shrugged. “Invited,” he replied. “I didn’t know you knew Romelle. She does aerospace engineering, not astrophysics.”

In addition to being childhood friends, Matt and Shiro were both studying in astrophysics, the difference being that it was Shiro’s major (with politics as his minor) and Matt’s minor (aerospace engineering being his major). They had a few classes together and even lived together, but Matt had spent the entire day hastily finishing off his engineering report. From the looks of things, he’d come straight to the party from the library.

“I, uh, don’t,” Shiro said, his attention suddenly being grabbed by the frat boys’ attempts to pour alcohol into six plastic shot glasses. “Hey, you want me to do that?” he asked, looking at the mess they were making. The one pouring made a _pfft_ noise and waved at Shiro with his free hand.

“I’m fine—I’m fine,” he muttered, slurring. “M’Ulaz, by the way. That’s—that’s Thace.”

“Shiro,” Shiro replied, as Thace looped an arm around his shoulders. They were both very heavily built, and very muscular. “Do you know Romelle?”

“Course we do, why d’you think we’re here?” Ulaz asked, not looking up from the shot glasses.

Thace nodded. “Yeah, we know her from Aero-Eng like Matt,” he added. “Just cause we’re in a frat doesn’t mean we’re party-crashing assholes.”

Ulaz laughed, then swore as he over-filled the shot-glass and it spilled onto the countertop. “Shit. Hey, Thace, root out another couple glasses?” he asked. Thace did, and Ulaz clumsily filled them, giving eight in total. There was probably more spirit on the counter than in the glasses, but nonetheless Ulaz pushed a pair of glasses to first Thace, then Matt, then Shiro.

“What is this stuff?” Shiro asked, raising a glass to his nose and taking a sniff. He recoiled.

“Potent,” Ulaz replied brightly, just as Matt said, “Smells like apples?”

“Gentlemen?” Thace prompted, lifting one shot. They all bumped glasses, then knocked back first one, then two shots each. As he swallowed the second, Shiro began to feel a cold burn in the back of his throat, eyes watering slightly. The strong, saccharine taste of apples disguised it a little, but not entirely. He coughed once, then managed a giddy laugh, the alcohol starting to set in already. Whatever it was, it was way stronger than the tequila he’d been expecting, and he hadn’t eaten much today. He just hadn’t been hungry, and it was going to show quickly. Keith had been nagging him about that for months, but honestly, he didn’t see the problem. The only reason Matt didn’t also nag him was because he was just as bad. They ate when they were hungry, and yes, sometimes it was just a couple slices of bread, but they hadn’t passed out from malnutrition yet, so it was probably fine.

Probably.

“I’ll—I’ll—I’ll pour the next ones,” Shiro muttered, grabbing the bottle before either Thace or Ulaz could knock it off the counter.

“So, Holt,” Thace slurred, leaning heavily on the wet countertop and nearly slipping onto the floor. “You were—you were saying… ah, fuck, what were you saying?”

Matt thought for a moment. “Y’know what, I got nothing,” he laughed, “But who cares—tell me, Shiro, how did you get an invite to this party if you didn’t come with me and you didn’t get it from Mellie?”

He knew exactly what he was getting at and worse, he _knew_ it. If not for the warmth currently spreading through Shiro’s body, relaxing him, letting him go easy on his friend for being such a sneaky bastard, he might’ve been annoyed, but instead he drawled, “You’re at one of the top universities in the country and you can’t figure it out? Jeez, I hope they can offer a refund on your degree.”

Both Thace and Ulaz guffawed as Shiro handed them each a shot. When Shiro handed one to Matt, his eyes said _I’m not gonna drop this_ , and Shiro’s said _I don’t care, you can’t make me admit anything_.

The burn was less extreme the second time round, and Shiro asked around the overly-sweet apple taste, “So—why aerospace engineering?”

Thace hiccupped. “We wanna— _hic!_ —wanna be fighter pilots,” he replied, looping one arm around Ulaz’s neck and grinning. “Air— _hic!_ —air force.”

“Cool! My little brother wants to be one,” Shiro remarked, looking at the bottle on the countertop, and how much of its contents was also on the countertop. It would’ve been easier if they’d had one of those special nozzles he saw in bars, but no such luck. “His mom—she was one, too. Pretty famous one, too, I think. Ever hear of Krolia Kogane?”

Thace and Ulaz stared at him. “K—Krolia Kogane?” Ulaz spluttered as Matt burst out laughing. “The Skyhawk?”

“Apparently, you have,” Shiro muttered.

“And have _you_ heard of Allura?” Matt asked, grinning at him brazenly. Shiro hoped he could pass off his embarrassed blush as mere intoxication—he did get notoriously red when he was drunk—and tried to assume a casual pose.

“I know she lives here. With Romelle,” he said casually, fooling absolutely no one. Matt didn’t even have to say anything, he just smiled slyly at Shiro and that was enough to make Shiro put up his hands and say, “I’m gonna mingle, maybe see if I can find something to drink.”

“I hear Allura’s a tall glass of water!” Thace hollered after him, as Ulaz and Matt cackled.

Shiro would never have believed someone if they’d told him Matt would be goofing around with a couple of frat boys at a party if he hadn’t seen it for himself, but they seemed broadly alright. As for what Thace said about Allura, much as Shiro was irritated with himself for agreeing, he _did_ agree. If seeing her in the library a few days ago had been like seeing a difficult-to-spot celestial body—elusive with her slight blemishes that brought her down to the level of mere mortals such as himself, the perfect imperfections of being stressed about assignments and frustrated by academics’ turns of phrase—then seeing her as he’d walked in had been like witnessing some kind of supernova—obvious but not the slightest bit less incredible for that; radiant and truly in her element. She _was_ a tall glass of water and, at the risk of sounding crass, he was _very_ thirsty.

Seriously. He was parched. He needed something besides apple-flavoured spirits to drink.

Thace, Matt and Ulaz stayed in the kitchen, shouting over the thumping music about which game to play—knowing Matt, he would suggest Never-Have-I-Ever as, according to him, there were few pleasures in life greater than exposing drunk college students’ most ridiculous sexual exploits. Perhaps there was something for him to drink elsewhere in the house.

He did indeed find a mountain of bottles on a table in what he supposed was meant to be a bedroom on the house’s ground floor, but Romelle and Allura had instead repurposed into a study, if the piles of textbooks and notepads on one desk were any indication. On another desk were approximately fifty bottles, none of which more than half full, most of which less than a quarter, ranging from spirits to alcopops to fruit juice. He picked up a bottle of strawberry vodka, gave it a sniff to make sure it was, actually, strawberry vodka (it was) then poured it into a cup with some lemonade. Basic, perhaps, but he didn’t want to get blackout drunk, especially not this early in the night.

Standing in the hallway, in the doorway of the room, Shiro looked across the hallway to the kitchen, where Matt, Thace and Ulaz were indeed playing Never-Have-I-Ever. To his right was the front door and to his left, the majority of the partygoers were congregated in the living room.

They, too, were playing some kind of game—a game in which someone had just made a mistake, because as soon as Shiro walked in, he heard a round of groaning, and a woman exclaim, “ _Romelle!_ ” in an exasperated tone. After a moment—whatever had been in those shot glasses was starting to set in—he realised it had been Allura’s voice.

She was sat on one of the two sofas placed opposite each other in the center of the room, the one facing the doorway Shiro stood at. Her gaze, however, was fixed on a pretty woman to her right with long blonde hair pulled into low pigtails and a blue t-shirt tucked into high-waisted shorts. Judging from how Allura was looking at her, she must have been Romelle; Allura’s housemate.

Romelle shot Allura a half-irritated, half-amused look, then raised a hand—she was holding a playing card. She put it to her lips and turned to Allura, who leant forwards as if to kiss Romelle.

In the moment between Allura leaning forwards and her taking the card from Romelle—Romelle blew outwards and Allura breathed in through her mouth, effectively sticking the card to her lips—Shiro worried that he’d made a grave error and that Romelle wasn’t Allura’s housemate, but her _girlfriend_. For some reason—well, he knew exactly which reason—a strange, pained tightness bloomed in his chest. Then Allura pulled away with the card on her mouth and turned to a guy sitting on her left and passed the card to him, and suddenly that tightness relaxed.

Allura turned away from the guy and giggled with Romelle as they watched card fall at the last moment, almost resulting in two guys kissing, and their subsequent recoiling. Then she noticed Shiro standing in the doorway.

“Shiro!” she said brightly, “Wanna play?”

“Uh, sure!” he said, and Allura scooted over to put space between her and the guy. She pretended not to notice the smug look on Romelle’s face. “What’s the game?”

“Kiss-O-Gram,” Romelle answered, “Or Suck-and-Blow, but that sounds juvenile.” She made a face.

“I like Suck-and-Blow!” remarked the guy who had taken the card from Allura, earning a holler from his friends.

Romelle smirked at him, and the guy he’d almost kissed. “I bet you do,” she drawled, and they both flushed. She then laughed. “Oh, come on, boys—afraid you’ll damage that fragile masculinity?”

Shiro chuckled. “So,” he said, “Who starts?”

“New blood,” Romelle told him, and she pretended not to notice Allura’s glare as she handed Shiro a playing card, the Ace of Hearts. “We flip a coin—heads goes left, tails goes right, and we have to make a complete round of the circle before the timer runs out.” She pointed to a small plastic hourglass that timed about a minute.

Someone from the other side of the circle produced a coin, flipping it up in the air, catching it in their palm and slapping it onto the back of their hand. “Tails!” they announced, “Right.”

 _Right_ , Shiro thought. Not the direction, but the conviction. Allura was on his right. He smiled at her as Romelle reached for the hourglass. “Ready…” she said, “… _Go!_ ”

Shiro didn’t really think about how he was _basically_ kissing her, that this was how it would look if he was kissing her, her eyes closed, her face so close to his. He didn’t really think about how he could smell her perfume when she was this close, and how a lock of her ponytail which rested over her shoulder tickled his throat slightly as he leant in. He didn’t even really think about, but for a playing card, her lips would be touching his right now.

Really.

Allura took the card from him without issue and passed it to Romelle, who this time managed to pass it to the woman on her right without issue. Clearly, the people in the circle were well-practiced at this game, because they moved quickly, and before the minute was up, the guy on Shiro’s left was passing the card back to him, and everyone gave a cheer.

“ _Finally!_ ” Allura exclaimed with a laugh, standing up. “I’ve been needing a drink for ten minutes.” She picked up her empty solo cup and patted Romelle’s shoulder. “I’m tapping out.”

“Yup,” Romelle said, “Hey, chase Thace and the others out of the kitchen, would you? We’re gonna play Ring-of-Fire and we need more dicks.”

“If we’re gonna play Ring-of-Fire, I’ll need a refill,” Shiro lied, scooping up his cup before anyone could really see that it was at least half-full—not that anyone was particularly concerned about whether he was lying or not. Allura gave him a smile and, as Shiro carefully stepped around the group of people clustered around the coffee table either on the sofa or the floor, she simply stepped _onto_ the coffee table and walked between the two people sat opposite her.

In the kitchen, Matt, Thace and Ulaz were still playing Never-Have-I-Ever, and judging from how Thace was slurring, he was losing.

“Matt,” Shiro said loudly, “Ring-of-Fire.”

Matt turned to him at once, “Oh, _nice!_ ” he exclaimed, immediately heading for the living room and yelling, “ _Leave the jokers in!_ ” at Romelle, who was shuffling a pack of slightly-lipstick-smeared playing cards. Thace and Ulaz, interested, both mumbled something to Allura that sounded vaguely like a thank you for her hosting, then followed Matt.

Allura pulled a dishtowel from out of the drawer handle and carelessly wiped the countertop once—clearly Ulaz’s pouring skills hadn’t improved as they’d continued drinking—then climbed up onto the counter.

“Uh, Allura?” Shiro asked, trying not to look to obvious as he took a step back; he’d been standing so close to the counter that he’d almost been able to see up her skirt. “What’re you doing?”

“Oh, I stashed a bottle of vodka up here hours ago,” she replied, grimacing as she strained to reach it. “Ah, shit,” she muttered, “Hey, could you move around to the other side?”

He blinked at her, then did as she’d asked. “Sure,” he said, “But why—?”

“Catch!” she said, nudging her arm, and a bottle of vodka rolled off the top of the cupboard. Luckily, it took a moment to roll off, so Shiro had enough time to notice it and catch it. It was indeed a bottle of vodka, about two-thirds full and vanilla flavoured.

Allura hopped off the countertop and lead Shiro into the dining room. “I know it’s kind of basic,” she said, “But if the vodka’s flavoured then I don’t taste the alcohol so much.”

He eyed her. “You can’t hold your drink?” he teased, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Please,” she said, “I just had a nasty incident in high school—too many shots of vodka, now I physically can’t swallow anything too strong. Plus, I like vanilla.” She then slammed down her solo cup on the dining table and said, “Anyway. Show me what you’ve got.”

Shiro looked up from the vodka bottle. “What?”

Allura’s grin was devilish. “I hear you’re one hell of a mixologist,” she said, “Or is that just with energy drinks?”

With a smirk, Shiro set down his own cup and the vodka bottle. “I’m offended you even have to ask me that,” he said.

She laughed and sat on the edge of the table. “Mix me a drink then, spaceboy,” she ordered, mock-haughtily. Shiro met her smirk and stretched out his arms like he was preparing to play a piano piece.

“Watch the master at work, Princess.”

He grabbed several bottles, examining each before either adding some to Allura’s cup or replacing it with a frown. It was clear he took pride in his work, even the work of drunken revelry, and after he topped off the drink with a generous splash of the vanilla vodka, he nudged the orange-yellow, fizzing concoction towards Allura with comic seriousness. “This,” he murmured, “Is my magnum opus. I hope it doesn’t kill you.”

“It’s only death,” Allura deadpanned, and picked up the cup to examine the drink closer. “A masterpiece,” she said sagely, then took a gulp. She swallowed, thought for a moment, then grinned. “Wow!” she remarked, then proceeded to down the rest of it.

Shiro laughed when she slammed down the cup. “I thought you were getting a drink for Ring-of-Fire,” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” she muttered, then grinned. “Guess you’d better make me another one, then.”

Feigning exasperation, Shiro reached for the bottles again, and Allura watched him. “What do the jokers do?” she then asked, and Shiro blinked at her.

“What?”

“In Ring-of-Fire,” she clarified. “Matt told Romelle to leave the jokers in.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Shiro realised she was talking about the card game. “Right. Those’re some house rules we picked up at high-school. It’s, uh… clothes-swap. Once the second joker’s pulled. The other players vote on whether it’s a single piece or the whole outfit.”

Allura grinned, and he could tell that this would be a rule she was going to implement whenever possible. “Imagine if you and I pulled them!” she laughed. Shiro laughed too, because the idea of his wearing her black halter top and pleated skirt was amusing, but then he considered the other result of such a scenario; and the idea of Allura having to wear his black t-shirt was… interesting.

He decided he wasn’t going to think about that. Or about the fact that swapping entire outfits would presumably mean he and Allura would have to get changed in the same room.

 _Jesus Christ, would you **stop** it?_ he thought, just barely resisting the urge to facepalm. He returned his attention to the bottles and finally passed Allura her second drink, and though she took it, she did not immediately move to the door. Instead, she leant against the side of the table and looked at him.

A question came to mind and forced itself out his mouth before Shiro even thought to stop it.

“Why’s your hair white?”

Allura blinked at him and grabbed the end of her ponytail self-consciously. “Canities,” she said, “It’s hereditary—my Dad when white when he was my age, too.” She paused, hesitated before asking, “Does it bother you?”

Shiro’s eyes widened. “What? No, _no!_ I just—I was curious, is all.” He swallowed, took a drink, then added, “There’s some rumour around campus that you got kidnapped by terrorists, that the shock did it.” He gestured to his own hair; the bright white forelock.

Relief flooded through her, then incredulity. “Oh my god, _really?_ How—how have I never heard this?”

He shrugged. “You were sworn to secrecy by Her Majesty’s Secret Service, due to the sensitive nature of the information.”

Allura laughed. “Was I, now? Such a high level of secrecy that even _I_ didn’t know about it!” She smiled at him. “So you don’t mind? My hair, I mean?”

Shiro grinned. “Are you kidding? It’s beautiful— _you’re_ beautiful. _Whatever_ colour your hair is.”

He felt himself go very abruptly red, and hoped he could just attribute it to the alcohol. He took another sip so his mouth would have something to do besides embarrass himself just as Allura asked, “If you don’t mind me asking… How did you get that scar?”

Shiro flushed. Since he was already quite drunk, it wasn’t very noticeable, but flushing itself made the scar stand out more. He rubbed the back of his neck slightly self-consciously. “You probably heard the story at some point,” he said, “Me and Matt and Sam—Matt’s dad—we were driving. Well. _I_ was driving. And… we got T-boned. Sam was in the back, he got out pretty much alright. I got the worst of it. Including this.” He tapped the bridge of his nose. From the way he spoke, it was clear that he wasn’t quite uncomfortable talking about it, so much as embarrassed.

“You don’t feel guilty about it, I hope?” she said, “If you were T-boned, that’s the other guy’s fault, right?”

“It is,” he agreed, “But I still should’ve been paying better attention.” He then shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “Honestly, the worst bit was after. My boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend. Adam. He didn’t want me to come here, do astrophysics and try to become an astronaut. I think he was worried I’d end up hurt again—hurt _worse_. We argued a lot just before I moved out here for freshman year.” He sighed, then swallowed. “Sorry!” he then said, “That got depressing. I—sorry.”

Allura gave a smile. “You’re fine, really,” she said, “I didn’t expect it to be a fun story, if I’m honest.” She paused, seeming to consider something. “I… I’m sorry about you and Adam.”

Shiro shook his head. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “It was two years ago. And as much as I loved him… I wanna become an astronaut. I’ve wanted it since I was six. I don’t think I could ever choose someone over the stars.”

Allura thought about this for a moment as she took a sip of her drink. “That’s pretty,” she remarked. “I… I hope you find someone who can help you get to them.”

He grinned at her, still a little self-conscious, but notably more cheerful. “Thanks,” he said. “Sorry I bummed you out with all my ugly-breakup, ugly-scars talk.”

“They’re not ugly!” Allura exclaimed, before she really gave any thought to what she was saying. She didn’t have the excuse of going red when she drank, and blushed hard enough that even on her skin, it was obvious.

Shiro peered at her. “You… think so?” he said lightly. Too lightly, he thought. He was so caught up by that that he didn’t notice Allura’s blush deepening, nor that she fumbled for a moment before speaking.

“I… I mean…” she faltered, “I don’t think you look _bad_. At all. And, like, even _with_ the scar—you look—honestly, not even _despite_ it, you just—it looks kind of… hot?”

Words had failed her. She spoke four languages fluently and words had completely and utterly failed her. She had forgotten how to form basic sentences. All pretence of grammatical structure had fled her brain to be replaced with blatant feminine lust. She elected to blame it on Shiro. On the drinks he had made her, on the t-shirt he’d dared to wear, on the scar across his nose.

Meanwhile, Shiro seemed to have stopped working entirely. She thought… _Allura_ thought… He looked hot, even with the scar? No, not even that—she thought the _scar_ made him look hotter?

He had to take a moment to process it. He knew some girls liked tattoos and piercings, was this the same sort of thing? Some vague suggestion of toughness from which a slight dark side, a hint of danger, could be imagined? Maybe. But Allura had struck him as being rather more forefront than that—or more like _she_ would be the one with a dark side; a hint of danger.

It wasn’t that Shiro didn’t know he was good-looking; it was that after the car crash, he hadn’t believed he was good-looking _anymore_. Half his hair had turned white from the stress, he had a huge scar across his face, several more over his torso and shoulders, and an absolute mess on his right bicep where his arm had been crushed by the door. It was a miracle he hadn’t needed to have it amputated, and it had taken a full year after the crash for him to feel comfortable wearing t-shirts again.

Allura, meanwhile, was perfect. Maybe it was tinted lenses, rosy with infatuation, but she just kind of _was_. It was more than just beauty—of which she really did have in spades, with smooth dark skin, a slender figure and long cascades of thick, snow-white curls—she was poised, kind, respectful, funny, and very, very smart. To sum it up, she intimidated the _hell_ out of him.

And it was kind of the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

And _she_ thought _he_ was hot.

“I mean!” Allura then said—well, she more yelped it, to be perfectly honest, but she told herself she didn’t. Shiro suddenly snapped back to the present. “Please don’t be offended. I don’t want to seem like—like I’m hitting on you. I know you had a boyfriend and—”

“So?”

He hadn’t quite meant to say it that blankly; it sounded a little rude, to be honest, but nuance escaped him at the best of times, and when he was getting steadily drunker off whatever Thace and Ulaz had given him, these were not the best of times.

Allura blinked. “What?”

“I’m not gay,” he said, and he wasn’t sure what had possessed him to suddenly be speaking so frankly to her, but he hoped it continued. “I like girls, too.”

“Oh…” Allura murmured. “I… sorry for assuming.”

He shrugged. “It’s fine,” he said, “I get it a lot when I mention Adam. But—did you know bisexual people actually make up the largest part of the LGBT community?”

Allura raised an eyebrow at him, then smirked. “I did. Did _you_ know I’m _also_ bisexual?” she asked.

This time, he _did_ facepalm. “Oh my _god!_ ” he cried as Allura laughed. “I have the _worst_ gaydar!” he lamented, which only made her laugh harder.

“I can’t really judge you, now, can I?” she told him, when she managed to pause laughing long enough to speak again.

Shiro shook his head. “I should’ve known when you walked over the coffee table,” he joked, and she snorted. Secretly, however, both of them were very, very pleased. They were also a little guilty about how pleased they were.

“Oof,” Allura then murmured, blinking a lot. “I think your magnum opus just kicked in,” she told him.

He grinned at her. “Oh yeah? I’m surprised it took this long.”

She grinned at him, somewhere between lazy and proud, then her expression became thoughtful. “You mentioned you wanna be an astronaut,” she said. “How come?”

Shiro leant against the table, also starting to really feel the alcohol setting in. “Uh… I just do,” he said, somewhat lamely. “I like the stars. I like the idea of going where no man has gone before.”

 _Where no man has gone before_ — Allura’s mind began reminded of how Lotor had been, to put it politely, selfish in bed, before she cut herself off. At least, she supposed, she hadn’t said that out loud. It was still a little mortifying, though.

“That reminds me,” Shiro then said. “No one—no one seems to know what, what classes you take? I feel like I, like I get a different answer from everyone— _hic!_ —everyone I ask.” He hiccupped and coughed into his fist.

Allura frowned at him, but more like she was trying to get him in focus than displeased. “I take politics,” she told him. “We have classes together.”

Shiro raised his eyebrows. “Oh,” he said, “Okay. Just—I thought—”

“I mean, I also take sociology and international law,” she finished.

He gaped at her. There was no other word for it: he gaped. “You do… you do all _three?_ ”

“Double-major,” she shrugged, trying to look casual but almost falling off the table. But for Shiro thrusting out an arm to grab her shoulder than she didn’t. “Plus some extra classes.”

“What, no languages?” he drawled.

“Oh, I take languages,” she replied, “I just do them in my free time. I speak English, French, Spanish and Portuguese fluently. I also know a little German.”

He shook his head at her, amazed. “You really you really don’t need sleep, do you?”

She smirked at him, trying her best to look seductive, but she was fairly convinced she just looked sleepy. It was working on Shiro, though. “Why don’t you find out?” she purred.

For a moment, Shiro couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But then some part of his brain—some part that was locked deep away save for when he was buzzed—reminded him that she had put sparkles next to her name, that she had called him and his scar hot, and she hadn’t yet suggested they return to the living room to play Ring-of-Fire.

Well then.

He blinked at her and grinned dumbly, then—for reasons even he wasn’t quite sure of—asked, “Do you have access to the roof?”

Allura leant back a little and stared at him. “Huh?” she asked gracelessly.

“The roof,” he repeated, smiling brightly. The vaguest beginnings of an idea were forming in his drunk brain. “Cause the weather— _hic!_ —the weather said it was gonna be a clear night.”

“Uh… the upstairs hallway has a window that—”

“Great!” He took her hand. “Come on, I wanna show you the stars!”

“I—what?” she asked as he pulled her to her feet, her attention mostly focussed on how he was holding her hand, and how warm he was.

“Stars!” he repeated, and the glitter in his eye—part-excited, part-excit _ing_ —made Allura let him pull her along. “They’re sparkly, live in the sky and stuff? Come on, I’ll teach you all the names!”

Luckily, the others were all too drunk and too engrossed in their game of Ring-of-Fire to notice Allura and Shiro bounding up the stairs to the first floor. Shiro pulled open the window and—with considerably more care and grace than how he’d walked up the stairs—walked out onto the roof of the house and outstretched a hand for Allura to use as balance. She did, and they sat down on the shallow slope, gazing up at the sky.

“Nice,” he remarked, “You’re facing north.”

“You can tell that quickly?” she asked, and Shiro nodded.

He put one hand behind her to brace himself and leant sideways, then pointed to a particularly bright star with his other hand. “See that one, there?” he said, almost reverently, like he was introducing her to a younger sibling, or pointing out a nearby timid bird. “That’s Polaris, the North Star. And, since it’s March…” He lowered his hand, turning his head to scan the sky. “ _There_ ,” he said, pointing, “Is Cancer.”

Allura squinted. “You know,” she said, “I never understood how the Ancient Greeks managed to make actual shapes out of those stars. All I can ever find is the Big Dipper, and the one that looks like a ‘W’.”

“Cassiopeia,” Shiro told her, and pointed without even really having to look. “Over there.”

She turned away from the sky to look at him. “Wow, you really know your stuff,” she remarked, and tried not to think about how close they were sitting, and how she was _pretty_ sure he’d scooted closer as he’d been pointing things out, but wasn’t _wholly_ sure.

He shrugged. “I like the stars,” he said. “It’s just crazy to me that… that things _that big_ and _that far away_ can exist… and that we can see them.”

There was something intimate, almost reverent about his tone. Allura pulled her knees up to her chest and hummed. “That is pretty crazy,” she agreed. “Isn’t it like time-travelling, too?”

He glanced at her, also trying not to think about how close they were sitting, and how it reminded him of Kiss-O-Gram. “What d’you mean?”

“Well,” she said, “Light can only travel so fast. The sun’s about… eight light-minutes away from us, right? So all those stars—” She nodded towards the sky. “—they’re years and years away. We’re looking back in time.”

Shiro wasn’t looking up at the stars anymore, he was looking at her. She noticed his gaze only a few moments after she’d stopped speaking, and he didn’t speak for a long time—unsure of how to quite verbalise the fact that that was the first time someone had told _him_ that fact instead of him telling _them_ , and how that might just be even hotter than how much she intimidated him, and how it kind of contributed to her intimidating him.

“Allura,” he eventually said, in the same tone he’d used to talk about the stars. She had incredible eyes, he thought. How was it possible someone could have eyes that blue?

“Yeah?” she asked, her voice soft as mist.

For a breath, he couldn’t form the words. “How… how much have you had to drink?”

She thought for a moment. “A bit,” she replied, “Not as much as you—but you’re bigger than me. Why?”

Shiro swallowed. “Because, I… I’d like to kiss you,” he replied, somehow keeping his voice steady. Against perhaps his better judgement, he cast his eyes down to look at her mouth. Her lipstick was ever-so-slightly smeared. Probably from drinking and playing Kiss-O-Gram. “And I think you’d like to kiss me. But I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Allura smiled at him. His face was only half-illuminated by the light from the window, casting him half in gold, and lining the other half in moonlight silver. He was breath-taking. “I’m buzzed,” she admitted, then fixed him with a sort of determined smirk. “But I know what I’m doing. What I want.”

 _Oh_. He hadn’t quite expected that answer.

For a moment, he froze, unsure if he truly possessed the confidence to make the move, then suddenly he realised he was leaning in, and so was she, and he could smell her perfume again, and he was reminded of Kiss-O-Gram, and this time there wasn’t a card in the way.

The first touch of their lips was tentative; gentle. A pair of previously-scorned lovers testing half-forgotten waters. Shiro couldn’t stop the soft groan as he felt her kiss him, realising now just how starved he’d been for this sort of touch.

As they kissed, Allura let out a little sigh, and reached up one hand to touch his cheek, her thumb just barely brushing the edge of his scar. When they pulled away, both caught in some quiet, reverent spell, she couldn’t help but at him, at the stunned expression on his face. A slow grin spread across her face as she asked, “You okay?”

He blinked at her dazedly. “Huh? Oh. Right,” he muttered. “I’m good. Um…” He ducked his head slightly, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said, “It’s, uh… it’s kind of been a while. Since I…”

“ _Romanced_ someone?” Allura suggested wryly, rolling the ‘r’ in romance. “Don’t worry. I haven’t dated anyone since I even started college. After Lotor—my ex—” she clarified, “—he, _ugh_. He was just all-round terrible, really. Got all _funny_ after I told him I was… well. And then he got weird about me wanting to go to university—kept trying to insist he could provide for us both, that my father’s position would be enough, blah, blah.” She shook her head, vaguely disgusted. “Ugh, listen to me, talking about my dirtbag ex just after some gorgeous guy kisses me on the roof.” She covered her eyes with her hand. Shiro noticed that she was wearing a silver bracelet on her left wrist.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he assured her, pulling her hand away. She smiled at him sheepishly. “I talked about my ex downstairs—we’re even. And I get it. A relationship ending can… put you off for a while. I haven’t really put myself out there, either. Matt says I’m missing out on half the fun at university.”

She gave a small laugh. “Romelle tells me the same. She might be right—don’t tell her I said that,” she added quickly, and Shiro grinned.

“My lips are sealed.”

Allura nudged him. “Look at us,” she said approvingly, “Two responsible young adults, putting ourselves out there.”

“If I’m honest…” he admitted, “I’ve kind of been wanting to do that all night, but I was worried you might think I was some kind of creep and wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore. You… you’re pretty incredible.”

She had to bite her lip to keep back the pleased grin. “You’re not too bad yourself,” she replied, and Shiro fixed her with a cocky smirk that sent all kinds of wicked thoughts to her head and warm sensations to her abdomen.

“So I hear,” he said, tucking his arms behind his head and lying down. “What was that you asked me, earlier? About your sleeping habits?”

Allura laughed. “I think you remember,” she said wryly, shifting so she was propped up on one elbow, looking down at him. “And if you don’t… _you_ might be the one who’s at risk of being taken advantage of.”

Shiro grinned, something dangerous and enticing. “No risk of that, I assure you,” he said, voice low and husky, reaching to catch her chin and pull her in for another kiss.

This one was less gentle and not remotely tentative. Now that that first barrier of uncertainty had been breached, they both gave in to the pull, exacerbated by the alcohol—social lubricant indeed. He sat up, one hand cradled at the back of her head, pulling her closer, _needing_ her closer. Instead of satiating him, each kiss only making his need greater, like drinking saltwater. She bit his bottom lip lightly, making him groan, and in a moment of unprecedented daring, he put a hand behind her knee and half-lifted, half-dragged her so she was straddling his lap.

He pulled away from her mouth to focus his attention on her neck, finding her pulse-point, kissing a dark bruise there. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, scratching the base of his neck as he kissed her throat. Now that she’d gotten over her initial bashfulness, bright, youthful lust crashed over her, driving her half-mad with the need to touch him, kiss him. She pulled his lips away from her collar to kiss him roughly; hungrily, knowing he would’ve left a mark. The idea of seeing those bruises in the morning, feeling claimed by him was exciting in a way she couldn’t quite verbalise; almost as exciting as doing the same to him.

They parted only when they heard a _THUD!_ From behind them, and pulled away from each other to see someone—someone who Romelle must have invited, because Allura had no idea who he was—tripping over himself and landing on the floor of the hallway, presumably on his way to the bathroom. He didn’t seem to realise that there were two people on the roof, though, as he pulled himself to his feet and continued on his way.

Shiro and Allura looked at one another, for a moment stunned, then they both giggled; the slight ridiculousness of what they'd been doing dawning on them both. Extricating herself from Shiro's embrace, Allura wondered whether, if that guy hadn't fallen and interrupted them, if they would've actually kept going and actually had sex on her _roof_. Was it still public indecency on the roof of your own home? She wasn't sure. She didn't really want to find out. 

Swallowing, Shiro said, "That was... intense."

Allura looked at him. " _Too_ intense?"

He grinned. "For a roof? Maybe. In general? _Definitely_ not."

She laughed at that. "That's good to hear," she remarked. "And... I think I agree." She pushed an errant curl back from her face and wondered if she was still wearing any of her lipstick. Most of it looked to be smeared across Shiro's mouth. With another laugh, she wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them to herself. “It’s—kind of cold out here,” she confessed. “Even _with_ the beer jacket. D'you mind going back in?”

“Not at all,” he replied, grinning, and they went back into the house. As he helped her through the window, he asked, “Would you, uh… mind doing that again? Sometime?”

She smirked. “And by ‘that’, you mean…?”

He flushed red again. “Uh… stargazing? Telling you about—about space? And stuff?” He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck. “And maybe the, um… the other thing, too? If that’s alright with you?”

Allura laughed, and once again he thought about how lovely a sound it was. “I like the stars," she replied, inwardly thrilled, and she pushed herself up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Then, taking his hand, she led him back downstairs to the party, where everyone was voting on whether Matt would have to squeeze himself into Romelle's shorts or her entire outfit. Shiro voted on just the shorts, loudly insisting that blue wasn't Matt's colour, but was tragically outvoted. Matt took it in his stride, probably because he was hideously drunk on whatever Thace and Ulaz had been serving, even letting Romelle restyle his hair into pigtails so they matched. By the end of the next week there would be students insisting everyone in the party had gotten so drunk that _everyone_ had swapped clothes; that Romelle and Matt had actually hooked up and in their rush to re-dress had mixed up each other's clothes; that Romelle's creepy ex had turned up and to screw with him they'd dressed Matt up as Romelle and insisted to said creepy ex that no, really, this was Romelle, don't you recognise her?

But this was all gossip, and probably not to be trusted.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just an extended version of [this ficlet from 2019](https://ajlenoire.tumblr.com/post/186358059820/day-4-au). It was originally supposed to end in sexytimes but I never found the inspiration to sit down and write that scene, so, you get the PG13 version. I might do a companion piece later on if ~~I need to procrastinate~~ the urge takes me lol


End file.
